Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Her mouth drops open so wide, I’m not sure it’ll ever close, but the light shining in her blue eyes as they search mine is worth all of those ridiculous texts and then some.
She might be a pain in my ass sometimes, but I can’t deny that today, her usual cryptic advice rang clear, and it taught me an important lesson in humility.
And I’d have to be a real weak fuck of a man not to thank her for it.
Yeah. Thank God for Greer Hudson.
Trent
At the gym that evening, while I’m on the treadmill, my head spins.
Have I really been that terrible of a boss? Have I been that way all along?
When I’m stressed, which is a lot, I tend to demand first and think later.
I mean, sometimes, as the boss, you have to be a hard-ass. You have to be the one in control. But not to the point of making your employees uncomfortable. And the past two months on this job, I’ve been more bark and bite than anything else.
The revelation is eye-opening.
And it’s all thanks to her. Greer.
She’s beautiful and can banter with the best of them—and I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to notice.
Why on earth did I hate it so much in the beginning?
It doesn’t take long before I snag my phone from the cupholder and pull up Greer’s actual number in my contacts. I type out a message as I run.
Me: It’s crazy, you know, because I’ve yet to receive a single advice text from this unknown number since this afternoon. And let me tell you, they have quite the track record for sending A LOT of text messages…
Her response is instant.
Greer: No hablo inglés.
I grin. I can’t help it. This woman is fucking hilarious.
Me: HAHA. Very funny.
Greer: I know I’m hilarious, but what is your current state?
Me: My current state?
Greer: Are you mad?
Me: Why would I be mad?
Greer: Oh, I don’t know. Because you’re the boss. I’m the employee. And I was texting you advice on how to do your job from a burner phone.
Me: You got a burner phone? Just to text me?
Greer: Uh…I don’t remember the details exactly…
Of course, she doesn’t remember…
Me: LOL. Sure, you don’t.
Me: But, no, I’m not mad. When I said thank you, I meant it.
Greer: Is the apocalypse happening right now? Are we mere seconds away from a meteor crashing to Earth and blowing us all to smithereens?
I laugh. Outright. Loud enough that a woman on an elliptical glances back to see what’s so funny. Greer Hudson, lady. That’s what’s so funny.
Me: Always the smartass, huh?
Greer: Pretty much.
Her texts come in rapid fire after that.
Greer: Thanks for not firing me.
Greer: Or murdering me.
Greer: Or hiring someone to kidnap me and take me to a deserted island where I would live off of coconuts and leaves and have to befriend a lost volleyball named Wilson.
Fucking Cast Away. A soft chuckle leaves my lips as I type out my last message before heading to the locker room to take a shower.
Me: You’re welcome, Tom Hanks. P.S. Your mind is a scary place.
Greer: Tell me about it.
At around nine, I’m back in my TV-less, far-too-silent apartment and wondering if Greer is home. I’ve been back from the gym for an hour, and I haven’t heard her yet.
I attune myself to the wall between us, listening for signs of life.
Has she all of a sudden started being mindful of her noise level?
I’m ashamed to do it, but for just a couple of seconds, I press my ear up against the damn wall to see if I can hear better.
Nothing. She’s not home.
Disappointment sets in, and to pass the time, I start browsing TV specs on the internet. Clearly, if I’ve stooped to pressing my face against the wall, hoping to hear my neighbor for entertainment, it’s time to purchase one.
There are a ton of options out there, stretching across all variety of price points, and I quickly get lost in the minutia of it.
I wouldn’t know which one to pick to save my life. I’ve never been the kind of guy to focus on the latest and greatest technology and update every time something new comes out. If it weren’t for the company, I’d still have the last generation of iPhone.
But Caplin, he’s a different story. LED, LCD, HD, plasma, bone marrow…whatever the fuck. He knows it, he’s into it, he’s got the best of the fucking best.
I grab my phone from the kitchen counter, settle back into the couch, and put my laptop on the coffee table.
It rings four times before he answers, and when he does, he seems out of breath.
“Hello?”
Immediately, I groan.
“Please God, tell me you are not having sex right now.”
His laugh is loud and obnoxious, and I have to pull the phone away to spare my eardrums. “Nope. I’m running. But I love that fucking some chick was the first thing you assumed I’d be doing.”